


Diarystuck

by 8BagelWho0



Category: Homestuck, Mirai Nikki | Future Diary
Genre: Alternate Universe, Battle, Character Death, Crossover, Diary/Journal, Games, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Sober Gamzee, Survival, Temporary Character Death, Trolls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8BagelWho0/pseuds/8BagelWho0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Twelve trolls.  Twelve future diaries.  One survivor.</em>
</p><p>The Lord of Time and Space is decaying, and only one may take his throne.  One who is ruthless and cunning, one who can stand the bloodshed.  Karkat Vantas isn't so sure he's up to the task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Searching

**Author's Note:**

> Location: Alternia  
> Time: Around the same time Hivebent would’ve taken place. Certain canon events have not taken place, however.  
> There is limited face to face knowledge, mostly limited to moirallegiances and working partnerships.  
> \-----  
> "Co-author" mannersminded is actually the illustrator of this fic!
> 
> I would like to first off give special thanks to my wonderful suitemate, who is helping me with world-building and creating a plot that actually makes sense!

* * *

 

 

The viridian threads are fraying.

But the signal is established.

It will soon begin.


	2. Activation

You shut your eyes and cover your head as more debris flies past you.  Pieces of your hive dig grooves into your lawnring as they land, some fucker’s ray gun or something steadily decimating your house.  Wow, you really are in rare form today.  If you had the time, you’d applaud yourself in the most sarcastic way possible.  As it is, you’re a little too busy trying not to get killed by a genocidal maniac bent on becoming the Lord of Time and Space. 

When you were enlisted to be a part of this game, you never thought it’d be like this.  And you never thought it’d be so _complicated_.  Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.  You think you hear Crabdad still moving around in there.  If he’s still alive…if you could only get him out, maybe you could regroup and…you don’t know, not fuck everything up per usual? 

Twelve hours ago.  Twelve hours ago you weren’t in this fucking mess.

 

* * *

 

  
 

You stare up at the ceiling, your head resting uncomfortably on the hard floor of your respiteblock.  You’re almost positive that those little marks on the ceiling are moving, but it’s probably just your ganderbulbs warping things again.  You have never been particularly skilled in the art of having high self-worth.  Of course, this is unsurprising, given your propensity for fucking everything up. You let out a low grumble, the sound guttural and raspy.  What the fuck are you even doing, lying on your back like you’re some ill-advised flushed wriggler waiting for the Imperial Drone to find you, helpless and, more importantly, alone. 

You blush slightly at the pornographic implications filling your own thinkpan and shake them from your mind.  You resume typing furiously into your mobile phone’s diary.  There isn’t much to say about your day; you didn’t screw things up as much as usual, considering.  There are certainly less fuck ups to record in your ever expanding Ode to Karkat’s Incompetency.  That’s not the actual title, though.  Who the fuck would actually title their diary? 

Everything will be changing soon, anyway.  You’re not sure how much longer you’ll actually have the time to use this record of failures.  You’ve been elected to play in a game, a game that will supposedly change the face of Alternia.  The messenger informed you of this nomination after you had finished yelling at him to get the fuck out of your hive.  Come to think of it, you never found out how he got into your hive in the first place.  Or whether you even had a choice in accepting the nomination or not. 

Your eyelids start feeling heavy.  You half-consciously think about actually getting into your recuperacoon. 

A sickening lurch somewhere in your body causes you to bolt upright into a sitting position.  What the fuck was—  The deeply unsettling spasms start to multiply as you hunch over, clutching your abdomen, gasping for breath.  The respiteblock around you looks funny, as if it’s melting slowly upwards.  Before you can do anything else, everything fades away.

 

* * *

 

A blast of light hits your eyes.  You open your eyelids cautiously.  It’s not sunlight, no.  It’s definitely artificial lighting.  You’re standing for some reason, although you don’t remember that happening.  The spasms are gone.  As your eyes adjust to the light, you see that you’ve been somehow transported to an immense, open room with metallic floors and walls.  A gray platform is supporting you, one of twelve that hover in a circle around the room.

  
 

Eleven other trolls, each shrouded in shadow, stand on the other platforms, some fidgeting nervously, others clearly growing impatient.  Each platform is colored differently.  As you look around, you quickly notice that the colors correspond almost exactly with the hemospectrum, even going in clockwise order from rust to royalty.  Except for you.  Odd one out. 

The platforms surround a throne upon which – you take a step backwards, a chill running through you.  How long has that thing been there?  What the fuck even is it?  Had it been _here the whole time_? 

A gigantic, definitely muscular green monster is sitting on a rapidly flashing throne beneath an indiscernible ceiling.  You assume it’s a he, even though you're not even sure what species he is.  His chest heaves as he looks around the room, his claw-like hands gripping the arms of his throne, his coat flashing colors along the hem.  The chair also doesn’t seem to like staying one particular color either.  The small, cue ball headed messenger from a few days ago stands primly beside the green monstrosity’s perch, his face, as ever, unreadable.  And nonexistent, really. 

“Now that our fourth player – and last guest – has arrived, we may begin the proceedings,” Cue Ball Head says calmly. 

“Where’s this treasure you mentioned?” calls out one of the shadowy figures, her voice sharp and coy.  “I’m not playing if there isn’t a prize.” 

“There’s a prize, Eighth, and I would advise you to keep your comments to yourself until the end of this meeting,” the being replies, barely turning to look at her. 

“Then fuckin get on with it, we hawen’t got all day,” another grumbles. 

“Yeah, Mister Concrete over there is here, let’s go!” someone else barks impatiently. 

Your eyes are wide as you struggle to take this all in.  Where the fuck are you?  You hope you didn’t accidentally fall into your recuperacoon face first.  That happened once, with a little “help” from a friend, and you’d rather not  relive the experience of sopor-slime-induced dreams again.  You pinch your arm as more and more irritable voices join in berating their green suited host.  The sharp pain does nothing.  Not that it ever works in dreams anyways. 

“ENOUGH” bellows the creature on the throne.  The room falls surprisingly silent.  You study the being’s face and are shocked to see constantly changing balls of color jumbling around inside the eye sockets of a skeletal face. 

“DO YOU WANT TO PLAY A GAME,” the creature continues, the veins in his thick neck popping out as he juts his head forward. 

A few of the other trolls nod silently, clearly taken aback by the fact that it can _talk_.  You mean, faceless beings are one thing, but this guy doesn’t even look like he can think coherently, let alone speak. 

“EXPLAIN GAME.  SCRATCH,” he finishes, leaning back into his seizure-inducing throne. 

“Of course, Dominus Anglicus,” the gentlemanly entity says, turning to the room at large.  “My name is Scratch, and I am an excellent host, as you can see,” he adds, motioning to the green skeletal monster.  Some of the trolls look at each other, confused.  Scratch clears his throat.  “You twelve have been selected to participate in a once in a lifetime chance to inherit the throne of the Lord of Time and Space.  You will—” 

“But I already had a throne, and I didn’t want it!” a voice at the end of the room calls out. 

Dominus Anglicus turns to look at the young troll, his eyes, if you could call them that, boring into her, his grip tightening on his throne. 

The troll backs up instinctively, holding her breath. 

Scratch bends over to look past his master at the offending troll.  “I’m afraid you’ll find that you’ll soon deem the position extremely palatable and, quite unfortunately, highly necessary.  Now, where was I…” 

The host begins to pace the room casually.  “There are twelve players in this game, twelve users, but there will only be one victor.  Each of you has been using a diary of one sort or another.” 

You unconsciously stick your hand into your pocket, making sure that your phone is still there. 

“My master and I have upgraded these devices so that they may show the future for up to ninety days.  Now, your future, after it has been revealed to you, can only be changed by you or another diary user.” 

Well, that’s just sounds like bullshit magic fakery. 

“If a change has altered the course of events, your entries will update themselves.  If you are killed, you lose.  If your device is destroyed, you lose.  If an impending death is in your future, you will be notified of this with a DEAD END notification.  You will then have to change the course of events in order to avoid your demise.” 

A shudder runs through your body.  The old fears are creeping back, that familiar nausea and anxiety are setting in again. 

“In order to win, you must destroy each other.  The last troll standing will be the winner, and he or she will take over as the Lord of Time and Space.  Are there any questions?” 

The room is silent save for the heavy breathing of the green monster. 

“Actually…” begins the troll on the jade-colored platform. 

“NO QUESTION.  GAME WILL BEGIN NOW!” the monster screams, smashing his foot onto the floor.  Before you can even breathe, the room fades away.  Right before the scene disappears completely, however, you can’t help but notice the ghastly creature is shaking Scratch, whose body has gone limp.  Then you can’t seem to see anything at all.


	3. Complication

Your phone emits a strange clacking sound, annoying you back to consciousness.  You made the text tone sweeps ago, sneakily recording the sound of your lusus’s frenzied claw snapping.  Sure, it’s an annoying noise, but, like your lusus, it helps you get things done despite the irritation.  You sit up, wrapping your arms around your knees, shivering slightly.  It was a dream?  The memory of that gaunt, skeletal face keeps sneaking its way into the forefront of your thinkpan.  You shake your head and squeeze your eyes shut.  Fuck, you need to remember to actually sleep in the sopor slime for once.  Then you wouldn’t have all of these crazy— 

Your phone clacks again, reminding you to actually pay attention to your surroundings.  A text message?  You switch it on, the lower half of your face nuzzled into your knees. 

You stop breathing. 

237250.  YOU TRIP ON YOUR OWN ROMANCE NOVEL.  WAY TO GO, ASSHOLE.

237251.  YOU HEAR A NOISE AND LOOK OUTSIDE LIKE AN IDIOT.  YOU GET HIT IN THE FACE BY SOME FUCKER’S RAY GUN OR SOMETHING.  YOU ARE IN RARE FORM TODAY.  I APPLAUD YOU IN THE MOST SARCASTIC WAY POSSIBLE. 

**DEAD END**

You stare at the words.  You didn’t write these entries.  These are from the future?!  Your last entry you remember making was number 237249.  So obviously this is—well, it’s ridiculous.  In another situation, you ‘d laugh at yourself, but the gnawing terror in your abdomen makes you consider the possibility, the insane possibility, that that dream was real, that this competition, this survival game, is real.  And if that’s the case…you’re headed towards a dead end. 

Already?  _Al-fucking-ready?_   It’s been an hour and _you already fucked yourself over?!_  

You scramble to your feet, tripping over one of your romance novels.  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck…” you mutter to yourself over and over as you grab your sickle and throw yourself out the door, barely managing to avoid falling down the stairs.  Having averted this particular disaster, you run, teeth intact, out the backdoor of your hive.  Just as your feet clear the threshold, the sharp, agonizingly grating sound of tearing metal explodes against your eardrums.  The force of the blast sends you face first into the grass, your sickle tumbling away.  So much dust fills the air that you can barely see a large boulder a few feet away from you.  Oh wait, that’s a chunk of your hive.  Well, fuck. 

You press yourself against the side of your hive, your nails digging into the wall.  The words DEAD END keep flashing in your thinkpan.  You whip out your phone.  You can change the course of events, that’s what that Scratch thing kept saying.  You can change things.  You can change— 

237251.  YOU BARELY ESCAPE YOUR HIVE, BUT YOU WAIT AROUND FOR YOUR DEATH WITH YOUR HEAD SO FAR UP YOUR OWN NOOK THAT YOU BARELY HAVE TIME TO START BLUBBERING BEFORE YOU MEET YOUR DOOM, YOU PIECE OF SHIT. 

**DEAD END**  

You shove the phone back in your pocket.  Wow, disaster _not_ averted, big surprise there.  You scan the lawnring frantically.  There must be another way out…what the fuck is even going on? 

You hear a high-pitched, inhuman screech, and a wave of heat rushes over you.  If the occasional spurt of flame is any indication, you will have to say that your hive is now on fire. 

You shrink down, your limbs weak and useless.  Well, more useless than usual.  As you struggle to make any sort of coherent thought other than _I’M GOING TO FUCKING DIE I’M GOING TO FUCKING DIE_ , the strange screeching continues, each blast adding fuel to the fire.  The air feels electric, and smoke starts to permeate everything, even spreading to the distant bushes at the edge of your growingly scorched lawnring.  Occasionally, brilliant streaks of blue light shoot out over your head, jagged and spastic.  And probably dangerous. 

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, YOU INSIGNIFICANT WEAKLIN’?!” a slightly familiar voice screams over the roar of the razing.  “What does this fake magical thing— I KNOW YOU’RE HERE I HAVE COME TO CONQUER YOUR SORRY LAND-HUGGIN ASS THE MAP SAYS SO!” 

There’s something about that voice.  You struggle to place it…no, no, you’ve definitely heard it before, heard it recently.  Isn’t he that weirdly accented guy from earlier?  From your dream?  Wait, if he was in your dream, that means he has a diary.  A future diary.  And he wants to kill you.  Fuck.  You whip our your diary again.  What do you do, _what do you do?!_

237251.  YOU BARELY ESCAPE YOUR HIVE, BUT YOU WAIT AROUND FOR YOUR DEATH WITH YOUR HEAD SO FAR UP YOUR OWN NOOK THAT YOU BARELY HAVE TIME TO START BLUBBERING BEFORE YOU MEET YOUR DOOM, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.   YOU GET KILLED BY THE DOUCHIEST OF DOUCHEBAGS.  GOOD JOB. 

**DEAD END**  

“WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!” you scream at the inanimate piece of electronic equipment.  “TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” 

You quickly slap your own hand over your mouth.  What the fuck are you doing, giving away your location to some homicidal stranger who is currently decimating your hive.  At least the commotion from all of the destruction is probably loud enough to drown out your shouting.  Unfortunately, it’s not enough to cover the desperate screams coming from what you assume is your lusus.  You blink back tears, shaking your head.  You can’t help him, not now.  Unless… 

You notice your sickle lying in the grass a few feet away.  If you could just grab that…who are you kidding, how’s that piece of shit going to hold up against some weird sci-fi laser gun?!  At least it’ll help you feel a little bit better about this completely and ridiculously hopeless situation.  You crawl forward a bit, careful to keep the jagged chunk of your hive’s wall in between you and whoever Mr. Trigger Happy is. 

Halfway there.  Now if you could just reach out, and… 

It’s quiet.  When did it get quiet?  You freeze, your hand still outstretched.  You’re almost too afraid to look back.  Almost. 

A troll hovers in the air atop a white seahorse lusus, a blue, glowing rifle tucked under his arm.  His cape flutters in the gusts of heated air coming off of the still burning wreckage of your hive.  That’s right.  He has a _fucking cape_.  He doesn’t seem to have noticed you, though.  You back up towards your hiding place, your eyes fixed on the Flying Doucheman.  He’s looking at some sort of scroll, his eyes blazing behind thick, plastic glasses.  You finally make it to the wall and throw yourself against it, panting heavily.  That’s when you hear a feeble whimper coming from behind you, underneath the hovering asshole.  _Crabdad’s still alive?_   If you could just get your lusus out of there…but no, that’s impossible, there’s just no fucking way… 

“Oh look, it’s the landdweller’s clawbeast.  Hear that, wriggler?  That’s right, I got your fuckin’ lusus!” the troll shouts.  “Your hive is mine now, got it?  The reign a Eridan Ampora has begun!” 

You can’t do anything.  You can’t do anything at all.  You stare at the screen of your phone, the words “DEAD END” filling your vision.  You can’t save Crabdad.  You can’t even save yourself. 

“Fine, be that way,” Eridan grumbles.  “At least Fef might like to have another lusus to feed her monstrosity.  Maybe then she’ll join me.” 

Your grip tightens on your phone.  Your fingers start to hurt from the pressure.  Good. 

You hear your lusus screech as he is lifted from the rubble.  You don’t hear him fighting back, though.  He’s probably too weak at this point.  You’ve never seen him be weak, and you probably never will, hiding out behind this chunk of hive like a useless, helpless wriggler. 

The diary entry still hasn’t changed.  Your vision clouds.  Why hasn’t it changed?  Maybe you’re supposed to go after Crabdad.  Maybe you’re just supposed to stand up and let this Eridan guy get what he wants.  One less player in this fucked up game to become Lord of Time and Space.  Like anyone would want you to be in the running for the job anyway… 

You set your phone on the ground carefully.  You can hear the seadweller muttering to himself, something about this fuckin piece of bullshit magical map and its fakey lies.  Your whole body is shaking violently as you tuck your feet underneath yourself, ready to stand up.  This is it.  This is your dead end. 

There’s a flash of light, and a pair of glowing yellow eyes are staring straight into yours, barely inches from your face.  A pair of surprisingly strong hands grip your shoulders, forcing you to stay crouched behind the rubble.  The glowing female troll gives you a very hard look.  “Not today,” she whispers calmly.  “It’s not your time yet.”

 

  
 

Before you can say anything, she moves her pale hand to your mouth, covering it.  She reaches into her tattered overcoat and pulls out a small journal.  You catch a glimpse of a brightly colored dress covered in jade-green blood before the dark, ratty coat obscures your view again.  She flips open the book one-handedly, checks something, and nods slightly.  “Battle cancelled,” she says quietly. 

She looks at you and slowly removes her hand from your mouth.  “Not a word,” she warns.  She looks up, slowly getting to her feet.  As she moves upward, her glowing skin loses most of it’s luminosity.  “He’s leaving,” she says, barely audible “but he’ll be back.  Unfortunately, it’s not his time yet either.  What a pity.” 

She pauses, her eyes distant for a moment.  You scrunch down, picking up your phone, your body numb.  She blinks.  “He’s gone.  He’s got some poor troll’s lusus,” she announces, straightening up.  She looks down and offers a hand.  You stare at her.  “I won’t bite,” she assures you. 

Your throat is dry, but you force yourself to speak.  “How do I know I can trust you?” you hiss. 

“You can’t,” she replies matter-of-factedly.  “But I’m pretty sure Eleventh’s going to come back and finish you off sometime.  The only reason he isn’t still after me is that he believes that I’m dead.  Which I suppose I am.” 

“How is that supposed to make me feel better?!” you yelp. 

“I have a future diary.  You have a future diary.  We’re supposed to kill each other, but I don’t particularly want to become the Lord of Time and Space.  Got it?  Trust me, if I wanted to kill you, I’d have done so already.  Now get up, we need to get out of here before Eleventh returns.” 

Your phone makes a clacking noise.  You switch it on. 

237251.  YOU CAN’T EVEN STAND UP TO FACE THE ELEVENTH FUTURE DIARY USER.  YOUR COWARDICE KNOWS NO BOUNDS.  DEAD END AVERTED.  FOR NOW, YOU WALKING  RED TARGET. 

237252.  YOU JOIN FORCES WITH SIXTH, WHO ISN’T AS INCOMPETENT AT SURVIVING AS YOU ARE. 

Well, if it says you’re going to join forces, that means you have to, right?  “You have a diary too” you mutter.  “Why would you come here if you weren’t going to kill me?” 

“I’ll explain everything later,” she says impatiently.  She grabs your hand.  “But right now, we need to _go_.” 

You struggle to your feet, your legs still a little wobbly.  “Don’t think that this means I fucking trust you or anything,” you growl. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything like that, Fourth,” Sixth says, tugging you along.  You snatch up your sickle as you pass it.  “But I do expect for you to share in a certain animosity towards Eleventh.” 

“Fuck that guy!” you shout angrily, your voice catching a bit. 

“Exactly,” Sixth says darkly.  “Fuck.  That.  Guy.”


	4. Calibrating

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	5. On the Fritz

You are suddenly that guy. And it’s uncomfortable.

As you hover over the wreckage of some lowblood’s hive, you think about how well spent this day has been.  Sure, didn’t start out so great, but at least you’ve managed to pick off quite a few landdwellers and at least one diary user. So that’s something.

A gurgling grabs your attention. You lean over and spy some pathetic excuse of a lusus struggling to wiggle its way out from beneath some rubble. It clacks angrily at you as you smirk.

“Oh look, it’s the landdweller’s clawbeast,” you say loudly. Hopefully that coward is listening. “Hear that, wiggler? That’s right, I got your fuckin’ lusus!”

You prod the beast with the tip of your rifle. It shudders. “Your hive is mine now, got it?” you lie through your teeth.  “The reign a Eridan Ampora has begun!”

You run your fingers through your hair, managing to get a few rings tangled.  “Shit,” you mutter, carefully extracting your fingers without pulling out too many strands. Still no answer from the sniveling grub, wherever it is.

“Fine, be that way,” you grumble. “At least Fef might like to have another lusus to feed her monstrosity.  Maybe then she’ll join me.”

You bend down and stab the creature, cherry-red blood spurting from the wound.  Your eyes widen. What the fuck? Is this kid a fucking mutant or something? You smile, broad and bitter. This should be even more interesting than you originally thought.

You heft the disgusting thing onto the back of your lusus, careful to not get the blood everywhere.  It’d probably be a good idea to keep this little anomaly to yourself, at least for the time being.  Until it proves useful. Of course, if you killed the user in two minutes, like the diary said you would-

The familiar rustling of your diary is barely audible above the conflagration below.  Well, fuck. You pull out the map and growl as the purple “X” on this hive shifts into a red “O,” the tiny date and time fading away as the future erases itself.  That little ingrate.  How the fuck did some landdwelling user manage to change the future?  This was supposed to be your victory!

“Fuckin’ piece a bullshit magical map,” you grumble. This place was as good as yours! “I’m about done with your fakey lies,” you mutter at the taciturn piece of paper.

So what if the hive wasn’t technically yours yet. Ignoring reality was one of your strong suits.

The reins tighten as you guide your lusus away from the smoldering hive.  Hopefully Fef would forget about this morning’s disagreement when you offered her lusus some food. It certainly couldn’t hurt. It’d be a nice thing to do. You’re a nice guy, after all.

You desperately hope your split up was a little bit of good old-fashioned ribbing.  A nice little prank.  Because she’d better have been fucking with you.

 

* * *

 

“Are you fuckin’ with me right now?!” you scream, waving your rifle around. 

Fef rolls her eyes.  “Calm down, Eridan,” she sighs.

“Calm down?  Calm down?! I’m so fuckin’ calm right now! It’s you who are fuckin’ crazy!” you continue to scream.

Your rifle knocks over one of those stupid little cuttlefish cages, and the brightly colored vermin squirt their way through the open door.

“Eridan!” Fef cries, her flushed face more beautiful than ever.

You groan.  “Fef, we gotta team up, it just makes sense!  I have the Conquest Diary, and you’ve got the sonar one! We’d get this fuckin’ game ower in two seconds!”

“And then what?” Fef snaps, righting the cage. “There’s only one captain in the end, not two.  And it’s not going to be me, and I’m certainly not going to let it be you.”

Well, that was just uncalled for. You desperately try to keep your temper in check, because up to now?  That’s been fucking grub’s play.

“We’d be unstoppable!  Those landlubbers wouldn’t stand a fuckin’ chance and you know it.”

Fef pushes her gorgeous hair back angrily. “I am going to give you the opportunity to clear out of here before I kick you out. Got it?”

That’s it.  That’s fucking it.  You’ve pined for this duty-shirking, lowblood-lovin _witch_ for too fucking long.  She has an opportunity to win this game, this glorious game of domination, and she just wants to sit in her hive and play with her cuttlefish?!  No fucking way.

“Fef, I’m only askin’ one last time,” you say darkly. You cock your rifle. She turns slowly to face you, her face tense. “Are you with me, or against me?”

“I think I’ve made myself perfectly clear,” she growls.

You hear a slight rustling and pull out an aged map. Your Conquest Diary. A small purple “X” appears where Fef’s hive is, labeled for a few minutes into the future. Another outpost to add to your empire, the soon-to-be Empire of Time and Space.  Well, that does it.

You’re not sure when exactly you fired the first shot, but before you can even duck for cover, Fef is brandishing her trident dangerously close to your right eye.  Fuck.

Your throat tightens.  Fef looks at you coldly, the razor sharp points barely moving. She narrows her eyes and moves the points up to your forehead.  “Ready to live up to your ancestry, Eridan?”

Your eyes widen.  What the fuck.

With a quick dodge, you manage to throw yourself behind one of the intricate cages, a blast from your rifle scorching one of the roaming Aquatic Hoofbeasts.  Fef skids to the opposite end of the room, her trident poised to fly at you with what you know would be extreme accuracy.

You prop your rifle on a nearby table, careful to block Fef’s line of sight with a cage of dumb cuttlefish. The room falls silent as you point your respective weapons at each other.  You notice you’re shaking, your finger weak on the trigger. You stare at her through the cage bars, and she meets your line of sight.  There’s something in her eyes that you’ve never seen before. It’s almost…like she’s scared herself.

“I warned you, Fef!” you yell weakly, continuing to glare at her.

Her face shuts down, but her eyes focus, boring into yours. It proves too much, and you drop your gaze.

“I suggest you leave, or I’m going to have to follow your definition of culling,” she says steadily.

You could easily end this right here, right now. Ahab’s Crosshairs would easily take her out and put an end to this moirallegiance or whatever the fuck it is. But you just can’t. It’s Fef. You could never kill her.

The silence stretches on for a few more seconds. You don’t want to let her think she won that easily.  Finally, you pull back your weapon.  “Good choice,” she says.

You quell your anger at her flippant tone and stand up. “I wish this had ended up better,” you shoot at her.

“I can’t be your anchor anymore,” she replies. “You’ve got to ship out.”

You slowly walk towards the door, not-so-accidentally knocking over another cuttlefish cage.  As the door shuts behind you, the tears finally come.

“Fuck that witch,” you mutter at your lusus.

 

* * *

 

 

You are suddenly that witch.  Even if you’ll never fulfill that mythical potential you are entirely unaware of.

After all, this would be the wrong game.

You stare out the window of your respiteblock, hair floating in the tiny currents as you glub a few bubbles in a useless effort to distract yourself.

A tiny ping rouses your attention and you sigh. You pull out the little device and watch as the purplish dot moves towards your hive. You groan. You absolutely hate this game.

Why would you ever want to win this thing, anyway? And a survival game? You are an absolute fish out of water. Killing isn’t really your style. Except…

You once again try to forget that urge that came over you earlier, when Eridan was being such an unbelievable crabby pants. You could’ve done it. You almost did. And you had the sinking feeling that you’d have to do it in the end.

The tiny dot peels away from its path towards your hive and heads in the direction of your lusus.  You still have to time to cut him off, if you want to, since the dots seemed to move about ten minutes in the future, but at least you won’t have to worry about keeping your lusus quiet today.  Eridan was good in that regard.

You look beyond the vicinity of your hive. This sonar was actually pretty impressive, even showing some of the shoreline, which really didn’t make much sense considering what sonar is. You spy the subjugglator, the dot barely moving. You’ve never met the guy (at least, you think he’s a guy from his shadowy form at the weird interdimensional bubble), but he kind of gives you the free willies.

The sonar doesn’t go much further. While you won’t be able to keep tabs on the possibly homicidal maniacs in this game when they’re far enough away from you, you’ll be able to keep see where anyone will be nearby, and that seems just fine to you. Unlike some seadwellers, you can’t take your home with you, but at least you’ll be in familiar waters.

The pings grow louder. Eridan seems like he’ll soon be floundering between swimming away or treading water. He should know better than to risk coming back, but he’s not exactly the smartest fish in the school.

You’re a little surprised that you have such a salty perspective these days. But times have changed, and you might just have to swim with the current.


	6. Blackout

“Keep your head down,” Sixth hisses at you.

“How am I supposed to keep my head down when you’re running so fucking fast?!” you snap back.

Sixth stops abruptly, and you manage to gracefully smack into her back and land on your nook. She turns and looks down at you, her nose curled ever so slightly in what could be motherly disapproval. She bends down, hands on her hips. “I am trying to save your life, despite your protests, so I would appreciate a little cooperation. I haven’t exactly been myself lately, so I’m already a little irritable. Getting killed does that to you. Now Fourth, are you going to follow me or am I going to have to carry you to safety?”

You shrug, eyebrows furrowed. Okay, so she had a point, but you sure as hell weren’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

Wiping some more ash off of your face, you pick yourself up off the ground. Sixth nods curtly, reapplies some lipstick and sprints off again. Fuck, that troll could run. You hurl yourself after her, trying to gulp down some air every now and then.

The night was freezing compared to the burning inferno of your hive. You could even see some of the stars peeking out from behind the clouds. You weren’t much for stargazing, but sometimes you’d look up just before the sun rose and it was time to crawl into your recuperacoon. Your diary clacks at you, and your stomach plummets a bit as your remember Crabdad.

You pull out your phone, dreading what future horrors were going to be recorded there now.

237252\. YOU JOIN FORCES WITH SIXTH, WHO ISN’T AS INCOMPETENT AT SURVIVING AS YOU ARE.

237253\. YOU GAZE UP AT THE STARS LIKE SOME RED-FLUSHED IDIOT AND TURN INTO A SNIVELLING PIECE OF SHIT. NOT THAT THIS WAS ANYTHING NEW.

237254\. YOU ACCOMPLISH THE STAGGERING FEAT OF RUNNING AND READING AT THE SAME TIME FOR ABOUT AS LONG AS EXPECTED AND FALL FLAT ON YOUR FACE, KNOCKING YOURSELF OUT. WAY TO FUCKING GO.

“What the-“ you mutter. And with that, you trip over yourself, flail to the ground and hit your head on a rock. Genius.

* * *

You wake up to a throbbing in your head and the taste of blood on your lips. You can tell the sun’s up through your eyelids. Fuck, you thought you’d closed the curtains before slouching off to sleep. You reach out blindly towards where your window should be, only to brush up against a rough, rocky wall.

Your eyes snap open. Yeah, that was definitely fucking rock. You grab your head, your vision suddenly wobbly and unreliable. So it wasn’t a dream. Fuck.

Someone touches your shoulder, and you yelp, crawling backwards. A familiar face looms in your vision, silhouetted by the distant sunlight outside the cave entrance, and you relax a little bit. “Sixth,” you say softly.

She crouches down, touching your hair gently. “You unfortunately knocked yourself out while we were traveling to the shore,” she sighs. “This put a formidable wrinkle in my plans to take down Eleventh, since it was near sunrise. Plus leaving you behind to burn up or be slaughtered would have been unnecessarily cruel, at least at this juncture.”

“Uh, thanks I guess?” you say, wondering what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

“Anyway, had we continued, my diary was kind enough to inform me that a battle would have ensued between us and a formidable party, and I don’t think we’re quite up to that task as of yet.”

You sit up straighter, wrapping your arms around your knees. “What diary did you get stuck with, Sixth?” you ask, genuinely curious. This troll kept talking about battles. Honestly, her diary seemed a lot more fucking useful than yours.

Sixth whips out a small journal. “This is the Hate Diary,” she explains, displaying a jumbled mess of symbols, question marks, spades, clubs and black lines. “It lets me know when battles will be fought over black, ashen and generally hateful feelings.”

“So, uh,” you stutter, “you can see who’s going to get…into it?”

Sixth sighs. “I am fundamentally the auspitice of sorts for this whole undertaking, apparently, so hopefully I’ll be able to prevent certain battles and thereby make everyone’s affairs that much less complicated. Because let us be honest, the last thing we need is for fighting to get in the way of killing each other right?”

She laughs bitterly, the smile a little too forced. “I don’t know who thought it would be funny, but I hope they know it’s absolutely hilarious that I get to be the one keeping tabs on who hates whom and who pities whom and who even has a smidge of ill feeling towards whom. Some of this isn’t even black romance! It even lists platonic hate! And I get to see all of those lovely feelings, all of that hate brewing, between trolls I don’t even know!” She flips through the pages, her eyes wide. “So I get loaded with the task of seeing who will be fighting each other over their feelings or lack thereof, and it’s just so very, very lovely.”

Sixth slumps to the floor, staring up at the ceiling, her journal still in her hand. You rest your chin on your knees. That just sounds too fucking complicated for you. “Mine just tells me how I’m going to fuck up in the future,” you offer, holding your phone up.

Sixth props herself up on her elbows. “That’s a very strange kind of diary to have,” she says.

You shrug. “I fuck up a lot. It kind of comes in handy.”

Suddenly, you both hear the sound of paper ripping. “Oh dear,” Sixth breathes, opening her diary carefully. “It seems that we have some hateful feelings in our future paths. Okay, it looks platonic, but…oh no.”

Sixth’s face falls. Your anxiety suddenly shoots up. “What? What is it?” you press.

She looks at you and flips her diary around. You see the symbols of you and Sixth connected by a black line to a symbol you don’t recognize. The mystery symbol has fuck ton of black lines coming off of it, some darker than others, but one seemingly ripping through the paper. “What does that mean?” you whisper, pointing at the jagged line.

“It means that troll engaged in a battle that left another troll dead,” she says breathlesly. “The problem is…I think that troll, the one we may very well be fighting soon, is the one who got killed.”

Your phone clacks. “Here we go,” you groan.

237254\. YOU WATCH AS A CRAZY DEAD TROLL FAILS TO EVEN NOTICE YOUR EXISTENCE WHILE SHE RIPS SIXTH APART.

Well, shit.


End file.
